


Coping Mechanism

by Rector



Series: Challenge stories [2]
Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 16:51:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7692205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rector/pseuds/Rector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for @sherlockchallenge August 2016 prompt: Tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coping Mechanism

Even now, if he closed his eyes, he could sometimes hear the whistle of shells as they speared the roasting air before exploding nearby buildings. The shouting of men, the whine and scream of twisted steel as it burned and buckled. The noise, the heat, the stink. On bad days, he could still feel the scratch of sand at his fingertips, in his eyes and drying the inside of his mouth. The dust of Helmand was gritty in his teeth today.

Looking out through the kitchen window, John Watson, Army doctor and Captain, late of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers and Afghanistan, watched as the dismal grey sky of a late autumn afternoon in London began to fade into dusk. For some reason, the gradual darkening of the day left him with an unusual feeling of nostalgia and melancholy. Nostalgic for the days when he had been younger and more naïve, willing to believe that people, even in the time of war, could be civilised and sane. Melancholy, because he had discovered this was not the case. He envied his flatmate's ability to distance himself from the horrors life; it wasn't something that John was terribly good at.

The Baker Street flat was dead quiet; Sherlock was off out somewhere, testing the combustion rate of a boxful of things against a range of flammable chemicals. It was unlikely the tall man would return any time soon, giving John the run of the place all to himself. Which was nice in one way and yet a stupid conversation with Sherlock would have gone a long way to dispel the vaguely uncomfortable shadow of loss and sorrow that lingered inside his chest this afternoon.

 _Tea_ , he decided, was the thing.

Tea, that great British panacea for everything that ailed. Stubbed toe? Cup of tea will take your mind off it. Woman run off with another man? Have a cuppa; plenty more fish in the sea. Nearly dying after being shot in the shoulder by a Taliban sniper with a stolen British high-velocity rifle? Cup of tea and an aspirin; right as rain in a couple of days.

Rinsing out the kettle before filling it with cold water and putting it on to boil, John remembered doing this back in the barracks at Bastian, where there used to be half-a-dozen kettles lined up on the British side of the mess. The Yanks thought it a huge joke until after the first major firefight, when they watched the exhausted, dust-caked Brits down gallons of simmering tea in the sweltering afternoon heat and be ready for the night patrol without much else. Coffee just didn't quite cut it.

Rummaging around in the cupboard, John hunted for the box of Typhoo teabags he'd got on special at Tesco's, his questing fingertips caught on an altogether smaller container which he pulled out into the light as a matter of curiosity. A small red tin with a flip-top lid and a picture on the front of a palanquin on an elephant. _First Estate Assam_. The tin was unwrapped and openable.

The smell from the black loose-leaf tea inside took John right back to the days when he'd sit at the tea table, waiting for his mother to pour out various cups for everyone to have with their salads and bread-and butter. He could even hear the clink of silverware on the china plates. It was always a scent that took him back to summer evenings, when the long light nights meant you could go outside and play right up until bedtime.

He smiled, shook the canister and sniffed again; the perfumed fragrance of fine Assam leaf reminded him instantly of his parent's home, where there was always time for a scone and a cup of tea. He could almost feel the warmth from the late-afternoon summer sun as he and Billy Walters from across the road played marbles in the back garden and discussed the comparative merits of Dinky and Corgi model cars.

His mum had always liked a good strong cup of tea, though John doubted she'd have been able to afford anything as decent as this. He reconsidered the tin in his hand, tilting it more clearly into the remaining afternoon light. It was clearly something Sherlock had bought on a whim, since the man seemed barely aware of anything that was put in front of him.

A loud and vigorous bubbling noise advised him the kettle had boiled. The smile still on his face, John dug back into the cupboard for Sherlock's old teapot, rinsing it out with boiling water before adding a good spoonful of the delectable Assam. Even the sweet cloud of steam promised an above average cup of tea. Stirring the loose tea leaves in the goldening water, John inhaled deeply, letting recall enfold him; happy summer evenings and a long row of Dinky cars lined up, waiting for play to continue after tea, until the lights came on.

Impatient, he poured a mugful, unwilling to wait even for the time it took to add milk or sugar, but sipped the steaming liquid even as he felt a slight burn. A slender beam of sunlight shafted down through the grey clouds over the rooftops of London and John shrugged as he sipped his too-hot tea, letting it fill him with the warmth of old summers.

Maybe a little nostalgia wasn't all that bad.

###

It must be remembered with nostalgia that Thomas Edison himself said it was not failure that engendered thousands of unsuccessful experiments hunting the perfect light-bulb filament, but rather running ten-thousand experiments that didn't work. Though salutary, this knowledge offered surprisingly little comfort to Sherlock Holmes as he stood alone in an undistinguished lab in the bowels of Bart's Hospital. Mike Stamford had arranged temporary access to the mostly unused lab, unpopular by means of its particular remoteness. Sherlock had need to test the flammable qualities of a coat belonging to a murdered man and isolation suited him perfectly.

The victim's corpse, by its size most likely male and probably connected to the military, had been found dead on the firing range of an Army training base in Berkshire. There was no visible sign of violence for the simple reason that the entire body had been reduced to a carbonised husk, burned to the point where the body was unrecognisable. It was obvious that some fantastically potent accelerant had been involved in the immolation, since there was neither a pyre nor any other material residue or detritus that might account for a blaze sufficiently fierce to reduce a human corpse to blackened charcoal. The man certainly hadn't spontaneously combusted.

Or had he?

But none of the chemicals with which he'd thus far experimented had provided even the slightest similarity with the burned black body. As John would undoubted write in his blog, the Case of the Carbonised Corpse was indeed unusual.

Inhaling deeply, Sherlock ruminated upon the possibility of chlorine trifluoride being used. Known to have a flamboyantly volatile reaction with anything, including human skin, CIF3's secondary reaction produced strong acids which would definitely have been found by even the most incompetent of forensic technicians. Used as an etchant, a powerful industrial cleaner and a component of rocket fuel, CIF3 was most commonly used in nuclear reactor fuel processing, or U + 3 ClF3 → UF6 + 3 ClF. One thing chlorine trifluoride was _not_ , was easy to get hold of. Therefore, while it was theoretically possible to murder a man through the application of such a delightfully helpful chemical, it would have been nigh impossible to do so in practice. Not to leave any loose ends, he rattled off a text to Lestrade. _Any_ r _ecent theft of chlorine trifluoride?_

Assuming, however, that ClF3 was _not_ the guilty party and since no hint of any other acids or caustic materials had been flagged, he was, for the moment, at a bit of a loss.

Checking the time, Sherlock realised it would be getting dark outside and he would not be home tonight. Sending a brief message to John, the idea of a bag of crisps popped into his thoughts. Though he had no inclination to eat, a packet of salt and vinegar crisps held a sudden attraction. Recalling the exact location of the closest vending machine, Sherlock fished in his pocket for sufficient coins and headed along the empty corridor.

There were three large, automatic vending assemblies crowded together in the semi-dark on the untenanted hallway. One contained savouries; another, snacks of a sweeter composition and a third for beverages. Waiting for his crisps to be dispensed, Sherlock saw the drinks machine carried a large, hand-written sticker announcing that the machine was malfunctioning and not taking cash. All drinks were free.

Raising his eyebrows at the unwitting largesse of the NHS, Sherlock hit the buttons for an unsweetened white tea, not holding out any great hope it would achieve the definition of palatability. Risking all, he sipped the milky-pale beverage and was agreeably surprised to find the stuff not entirely revolting, though it was far too cool for his liking. Apparently, the lack of payment engendered an equal lack of heat.

Yet not all was lost. There was a small microwave in the lab. It would be a matter of moments and he would have a steaming hot cup of tea to accompany his crunchy crisps while he contemplated his grand failure as a detective. If externally-applied chemicals were not the _prima facie_ cause of death, then what was? What possible cause, other than a quick dip in the nearest convenient active volcano, would have done this to the human body?

Returning to the lab in deep thought, Sherlock dropped the bag of crisps and headed over to the old white microwave tucked away in the corner, out of range of unpleasant sciency things. Were his thoughts not so intrinsically bound up in the problem, he might have noticed the thin strip of reflective plastic holding the bottom of the cardboard cup.

Sliding the disposable cup into the microwave, Sherlock selected the 'High' power and turned the dial randomly clockwise. Pressing _Start_ , he wandered back to the bench and sat, his mind tracing and retracing every an all potential methods that might render approximately twelve stone of healthy male into a bag of charcoal.

The acrid reek of charred organic material had him racing to the microwave to extract what remained of the container of tea. The liquid was everywhere, but the cup ...

Ahh ... _the cup_. A small curl of carbonised ash floated in a thin puddle of superheated tea. As soon as he tried to pick it up, it crumbled to black dust in his fingers.

The knowledge Sherlock sought had been under his nose the entire time. Of course! The microwave! The Army range would be used for training in experimental weapons as well as the more conventional ones. Sherlock would offer good odds that at least one of those weapons was a directed-energy anti-personnel device. He rang Lestrade. _Detain technician responsible for experimental microwave gun_.

Sherlock checked his watch again. There was still time to pick up a takeaway on the way home.

###

Mycroft Holmes checked his watch again. This entire debacle was a wearying waste of time. In the privacy of his office, he frowned impatiently at the screen of his laptop, filled with the image and biometrics of the subject currently in the main interrogation room. The elder Holmes' preference in these rather sordid and dreary affairs would be to have the guilty party make a brief expression of contrition and confess all their relevant misdeeds, at which point they'd be discreetly whisked away. Her Majesty's laws courts weren't noted for their swift handling of traitors, but anything that decluttered his day, even the simple confession of an inept mole, was to be appreciated. Unfortunately, contrition did not appear to be on the agenda this evening.

Gerald Carmichael had not been trained as an operative during his sojourn at Oxford, had not, in fact, been trained for anything much at all. Which was why, presumably, the North Koreans imagined the man would be perfect for the job of _spy_. From his elevated Civil Service position in the Foreign Office, Carmichael was able to listen to any number of 'we said, they said' conversations while maintaining a professional public disinterest. That the North Korean _politburo_ might have expressed a curiosity in learning the contents of such conversations was probably as surprising to Carmichael himself as it had since become to everyone else.

Such was the man's inability to understand the seriousness of his situation that Mycroft had been forced to monitor an unbelievable amount of mystification, obfuscation and exasperation as his people threw everything they had at a vague smile and a man who said nothing. Carmichael had been under interrogation now for almost five hours without a break and they were no further forward than they had been at the beginning. It was altogether far too much and yet nowhere near sufficient. There was only one thing left to do.

"Hold my calls," he turned to Anthea who looked at her own watch as she raised elegant eyebrows, nodding briefly as he walked down the beautifully lit and carpeted passageway towards the lift. Several floors below ground level, Mycroft strode out onto hard polished concrete, where all the visible lights were high up on the walls, enclosed in small steel cages. Down here, government funding was focused rather less on civilised comforts and rather more on an entire range of _dis_ comforts.

There were two large, dark-suited men standing either side of a nondescript door. As soon as they saw Mycroft approaching, they straightened perceptibly, their eyes managing to avoid any contact with his. Down here, one did not look the Head of British Security in the eye unless one had something very worthwhile to say.

The door opened silently, allowing Mycroft to enter the relatively small room with the minimum of fuss. The two men currently seated on one side of a central table looked up and then stood up, taking Mycroft's almost unnoticeable blink as a requirement to leave, which they did with some haste.

"Good evening, Gerald," Mycroft sounded pleasant enough as he took one of the vacated seats. "How are you this evening?"

"There's nothing you can say to frighten me, you know," Carmichael looked self-righteous. "I don't care what you do with me or how long you want to put me in gaol; I don't care about any of it," he paused for effect. "I shall be a political martyr and world opinion will soon set me free," he seemed triumphant.

Mycroft smiled thinly. "I have no intention of doing anything to you whatsoever, Gerald," he blinked again, a warning sign that would have others shutting up and listening very carefully. "Nor shall I put you in gaol."

Carmichael paused, suddenly uncertain. "Then what?" he asked. "Am I to be released? Just like that?"

"No, of course _not_ 'just like that'" Mycroft snarled. "You betrayed your country, your family and your colleagues," his eyes were cold. "There is only one thing I can do," he said, opening his jacket and sliding a hand inside.

"Don't kill me!" For the first time, Carmichael sounded afraid.

"I have no intention of killing you," Mycroft withdrew a new passport, laying it on the table between them. "This document is good for one journey only," he said. "You will take it and be put on the first plane tomorrow heading to Seoul, at which point you will be transferred to a car and driven to the Korean demilitarised zone, thence to be handed over to the North Koreans you seem to find so delightful," Mycroft sat back, the smile back on his mouth. "Say farewell to all things British, Gerald. I hope you have some dexterity with chopsticks."

"No," Carmichael shook his head. "You can't do this," his voice had lost its earlier insouciance. "I won't go!"

"You think you have a choice?" Mycroft lifted his head and spoke into thin air, "Some tea, please."

"But I don't _want_ to go there," Carmichael was almost stuttering with anxiety. "I only told them things to feel important ... I didn't mean to _tell_ them anything important ... I don't even _know_ anything important ..."

"Nowhere near good enough, Gerald," Mycroft folded his arms and looked positively sorrowful. "How do you feel about Kimchi?"

" _Oh god_!" Carmichael leaned forward, covering his face with his hands, just as Mycroft's tea arrived and was served into a Sevres porcelain teacup. Lifting the cup to his lips, Mycroft blew gently on the steaming liquid, the fragrance of Earl Grey crossing the table waving the Union Jack.

"What do you want to know?" Carmichael sagged brokenly back in his chair, understanding he had lost everything and that his life was ruined. "I'll tell you whatever you want."

"Excellent," Mycroft smiled. "Care for some tea?"

###

As Mycroft smiled on the screen of her laptop, so too did Anthea as she realised her evening was not quite as far up the spout as she had considered it to be. Within minutes of the elder Holmes returning to his office, she was finally free. It had been a long day and she was tired, but the idea of playtime being back on the menu brightened her right up. Making a phone call to the Mayfair Ritz, she spoke with a very particular guest to confirm a very particular date. Walking swiftly out of the building and hailing a cab, she wanted to get to her flat before the night got too much older, and taking the Tube simply wasn't going to be fast enough.

Closing the door behind her and kicking off her shoes, Anthea smiled as her naked toes sank into the coolness of the soft carpet in her bedroom. Stripping quickly, she leaped into a warm shower, dousing herself in an expensive new bodywash and shampoo, even as she counted down the minutes in her head. It had been over a week since she'd last seen her anticipated guest and she planned to make the most of the evening, the night and, with the right motivation, she was fairly certain that breakfast would be equally memorable.

Leaving the shower with the same alacrity as she had entered, she dried herself and her hair with swift efficiency, brushing out the long dark strands until they hung in shining curls at her shoulders. Dabbing on some Chanel Grande, Anthea flung open the doors of her extensive clothes store, heading inside and reaching for a new set of sheer silk lounge pyjamas. In vibrant tones of scarlet and dark reds, they set off her creamy skin, lithe body and dark hair to perfection. Stroking her hands down over her breasts and waist, Anthea shivered with the first tingles of desire. Casting an eye around the rest of her flat, she waited.

The doorbell rang, right on schedule.

" _Darling_ ," the man was of medium height, but his ruggedly handsome face was known to millions of fans around the world who followed his highly successful film career with extraordinary devotion. "I'd almost given up hope that you'd be able to make it tonight."

"Things moved along at just the right time," Anthea pulled him inside the door and leaned him up against it, twisting her arms behind his head, kissing him long and lingeringly. "It was a productive day and I am in a very good mood."

"And I have just the thing to make you feel even better," the man grinned as he lifted up two bulging shopping bags for her attention. "I went to Harrods and a couple of other places and got you some nice things for your tea-time," he sounded thrilled. "I know how you Brits like your tea and scones."

"I love tea and scones, but right now, there are other things I'd like even more," Anthea relieved him of the two bags.

"Yeah, sure, but just let me show you this one thing first," the man looked so hopeful as he reached for one of the bags." I saw it and thought right away of you," he added plaintively. "Please?"

A few minutes longer wouldn't matter really, and Anthea really wanted his full attention. "That was very generous of you," she smiled, resting a palm on his chest. "Show me what you bought."

"Great!" There was an air about the man of a child at Christmas, as he set about unpacking the larger of the two bags, revealing all manner of exotic containers of choice and expensive teas. "Got this for you at a place I can't remember but who also sold me this," he produced another large box, from which he withdrew a beautiful glass teapot. "See, the teas at this place are all tied up in little balls, and then when you dump one of the balls into hot water in the teapot, they kinda unfurl and hey presto! You have this thing called 'flowering tea'," he grinned. "It's _fantastic_ ; you _gotta_ let me show you how it works."

"Go on then," Anthea sprawled across one of her wide and comfortable sofas. The man's enthusiasm was such that she didn't have the heart to stop him. Let him make his tea in his glass teapot which they would undoubtedly taste, after which, having let him have his way, she would then have hers. She smiled in anticipation. "I'll be here, darling," she yawned quietly. It _had_ been a long day and it wouldn't hurt to just lie here relaxing until the flowering tea had done its thing.

There was a level of general clattering in the kitchen as the man prepared to boil the water and prepared the teapot for its first outing. "Won't be a minute, Hon," his pleasing voice called out. "It'll be worth the wait, I promise."

"Take your time," Anthea snuggled back against the thick cushions of the sofa and rubbed her eyes. "Not going anywhere." The sounds of bubbling water and the careful clinking of glass and china and the stir of spoons were so comforting.

"And I _also_ brought you a bottle of this, darling," the man held out a magnum of very nice champagne and glasses.

Unfortunately, Anthea was already dreaming about tea.


End file.
